Sins of the Father
by Twilight Scribe
Summary: The young, and the old. The past and the present. With guns, or with swords... like father, like son.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: You want a disclaimer? Sorry, no disclaimer for you.

AN: Ere we begin, this story is another one of Blackmoon's fine creations, so all kudos and accolades should be directed to him. (As I had absolutely nothing to do with this aside from the actual act of posting it.) Also, this story can be considered an unofficial sequel to Diabolus Irae. Reading DI is not required to understand this, but it wouldn't hurt you to do so anyway. (Hint hint...) That said, enjoy.

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Chapter 1: Caliga Seditio

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You've heard of it, haven't you?

The legend of Sparda?

Long ago, in ancient times, a demon rebelled against his own kind for the sake of the human race. With his sword, he shut the portal to the Demonic Realm, and sealed the evil entities off from our Human World. But since he was a demon himself, his power was _also_ trapped on the other side.

This so-called legend wasn't a myth at all.

Sparda existed.

Ever since he had sealed away the demons, he lived with the mortals in the Human World. With his power sealed away, he looked like a regular man at first glance, if an eccentric one. He was strikingly handsome, his hair white like the moon. He carried with him an air of nobility and grace, largely stemming from his habit of wearing a monocle wherever he went; most regarded him as unusual, but none suspected his demonic heritage. After all, the kindly Sparda was a fine, upstanding member of the community, and was always willing to help those in need. Why, he even had a wife, and two sons of his own...

Sparda grabbed his twin guns, Luce and Ombra, and walked to the front door. "Eva," he called out across the villa, "I'm going out on some business. I should be back before tomorrow night." He didn't hear a response, but this was fairly standard; his human lover was never fond of these 'missions' he would go out on, but Sparda's sense of duty was too great to keep him at home in these situations. To be fair, Sparda's so-called 'missions' were of grave importance- whenever he left, he did so in order to put an end to some upstart demon-worshipping cult, or a group of misguided humans who thought the beasts of the Demonic Realm could grant them power. Though the Demon World was locked away over 2000 years ago, humans never stopped lusting for power- and the devils never stopped offering it to them.

He shook his head, and grabbed his now-signature purple duster from the coat rack. "Humans... why do they expect anything from the demons but suffering and death?" With heavy heart, he opened the door, and stepped out into the cold night.

----------------

An hour later, and he was there, at an abandoned chapel on the far outskirts of town. There had been word lately of some minor cult absconding with cattle in the night and sacrificing them to some dark "god". If Sparda knew any better, it was more likely a devil, and probably one he had personally known. These sorts of sects were, on the whole, ill-informed; this night would go down like any other.

With dramatic flair, Sparda kicked open the great door of the chapel, the splintering wood echoing throughout the vaulted chamber. A circle of black-robed men around a bloody sacrifice jumped in shock as they turned to face the door, through which this curious purple-clad man was striding, gun in hand. "What in the hell--!?" one shouted.

"Got it right on the first guess," Sparda replied calmly, and opened fire. He never enjoyed killing humans, no, but at the prospect of attracting the attention of a major demon, or worse, weakening the barrier between worlds, it was for the greater good. It wasn't long before they were all on the ground, most dead, the rest dying. As he was leaving, though, a complication arose...

From behind him, Sparda heard a maddened laughter. He turned on heel towards the altar, and saw a tall man in a robe like the others, who Sparda was sure was not there a minute ago- it was as though he appeared out of thin air. This man was clearly human, and yet he seemed to have traces of a demonic aura. _'Could it be', _wondered Sparda, _'that this one actually made a pact with the demons?'_

"You're too late, Sparda. The ritual is done."

Sparda raised an eyebrow and asked, "What are you talking about...?"

"It was no cow they slaughtered for their rite this time, no," spoke the man as he gestured towards the grisly sacrifice on the altar. "This night, it was a young woman... a priestess. We know of one demon who needed that to break through the barrier... and he's bringing some friends, I hear."

The devil furrowed his brow and raised his gun to the cultist, and suddenly, the room started to tremble and shake. The air seemed to solidify before the altar, and cracks appeared across it, like glass; the barrier was beginning to weaken. Something was coming through. The cultist chuckled and grinned maliciously. "I think you knew him. His name is Surgat, Who Opens All Locks..."

Sparda quickly removed his other pistol, and the gateway shattered. There was a brief glimpse into the Demonic Realm, in all its twisted glory, when something stepped through- or to be more precise, four somethings. One was a pale man, in ornate, jet-black armor, carrying a curious staff topped with an eight-pointed star. The second was a taller man, gaunt and dark-haired, in a cloak emblazoned with the symbol of the Ankh; his eyes were sunken and grim, and at his side were a pair of gleaming silver blades. The third was no doubt the devil Yla, son of Mundus; he had the fair skin and blonde hair of his father, and bore a long cape, with a steel cuirass and matching pauldrons. The last to come through was black-haired and sported a goatee, wearing something resembling a priest's cassock in black and red.

The human cultist quickly kneeled before the four devils as the gateway sealed behind them. They inspected the world they had been summoned to, and the half-demon bodies they now inhabited. The fact that they were in these forms at all brought some relief to Sparda; it meant that the barrier was still largely intact, and the greater portion of their power was sealed away like Sparda's.

The fourth demon to come through- evidently, now, the leader- spoke:

"Surgat. Why is our power still on the other side?"

The first demon, Surgat, replied, "It is because the barrier is intact. If we wish to truly destroy Sparda's work, then we must find his Temen-Ni-Gru."

Sparda cocked his guns and aimed them at the group. "I'm sorry. I've grown a little fond of that tower- I don't intend to let you bring it down."

The leader scoffed. "I don't think you have any say in this, Sparda. Yla."

"As you wish, Bael," said Yla, his voice dripping with resentment, and held out his hand. A maelstrom of wind was unleashed, hurling Sparda against the far wall of the chapel and wrenching the pistols from his hands. Bael shouted over the rushing winds, "We've been watching you from the Demon World, Sparda. We're tired of being trapped there- it's been two thousand years, and we are going to end it. You will stay out of it if you know what's good for you."

Sparda's face contorted in rage, and in a burst of fiery-orange energy, he unleashed his full demonic powers. His skin turned black as the night, massive horns emerged from his head, and wings grew from his back. And even with the heavy ebony armor he wore in this form, he managed to leap through the rushing winds to the center of the chapel and wrap his clawed right hand around Bael's throat.

"Now, now, Sparda," Bael said, as though he were in no danger at all, "you must learn some restraint. Remember, Surgat is Surgat Who Opens All Locks- he was the one that opened the door to this realm for us, and he can bring more."

On cue, Surgat raised his staff overhead, and it glowed with a purple light. The effect of shattering glass occurred once more, and a pair of robed, walking skeletons armed with scythes- Pride Hellkeepers- burst through from the Demonic Realm.

"You see," Bael continued, "it's his specialty. And if you interfere with our mission again... well, your dear family will become very familiar with Surgat's powers, very quickly. Do you understand?"

Sparda loosened his grip, and reverted to his half-demon form. He carried an expression of both terror, and mute anger. He turned from the Four, and began walking away. With a deep sigh, Sparda retrieved his guns, and said, "I understand. Please... don't hurt them." Bael smirked, and turned towards the human cultist who had started it all.

"I must thank you for... aiding in our escape from that place," he said. "I'm sure you recall our agreement... you complete the ritual, and we make you into a demon..." The cultist nodded eagerly, vigorously. Bael turned his back to the cultist and looked the sword-bearing devil in the eye. "Well, I regret to inform you that the deal has been called off. Yeter'El, please do the honors."

"What!? But I--!" stammered the cultist, and without expression, Yeter'El stepped forward and drove one of the swords through the man's throat.

"Our business is done here," muttered Bael, and gestured for the others to follow him. The four devils (and the two Hellkeepers in tow) left the chapel, to head for the Temen-Ni-Gru. Sparda sunk down into one of the pews as they left, and buried his head in his hands. He stayed there for several hours, and said only one thing before he finally left:

"God... what have I done?"

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	2. Chapter 2

Blackmoon's AN: Now, don't get all confused/pissed off/both about this chapter. I know the last one was all about Sparda, and now this one's about Dante. You see, it's a back-and-forth thing. We're doing both of them. So sit back, and enjoy it.

Twilight Scribe's AN: And another thing! Last time Sir Blackmoon did something like this and intro'd a demon who didn't appear in-game, people began to whine needlessly. Now, if y'all have a problem with these new characters, you're more than entitled to whine about it, but at least give him some credit, okay? They're not OC's and they're not Sues or Stus spawned from the seething mass of Sparklypoo that's been festering in cyberspace for decades now. (If they were, I wouldn't stand for them either and I'd make him rewrite them.) These four are genuine demons from demonology lore. (Though "Yla" isn't a demonic name. Yeah, yeah, he knows. Cut him some slack.) Blackmoon does his research and does it well.

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Chapter 2: A Call to Arms

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"Devil May Cry.

What?" Dante sighed in exasperation. "No, this is 489_**7**_. The pizza place is 489_**8**_. No, it's alright. Bye." Weary, the half-demon demon hunter put the phone back on the receiver and reclined in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the table. "Damn wrong numbers."

Billiard balls clacked across the room as Lady hit the three-ball into the side pocket. "Who was it?" she asked Dante, although given the growing trend, she already knew the answer.

"Some guy across town wants a triple-anchovy. I don't think it's possessed or anything, but you can go check it out if you want."

It had been going on like this for weeks. The Temen-Ni-Gru Affair (Lady came up with the name- Dante's version consists mostly of obscenities) had been over two months ago, and shortly after that, the two hunters had set up the Devil May Cry shop. However, with the exception of a couple isolated missions and a fight with a demon jellyfish, most of their calls had been wrong numbers or pranks. Having nowhere else to go, Lady stayed with Dante, sleeping on the couch; they'd take turns sleeping and going into town, just in case someone called.

The phone rang again. This time, Dante yanked it off the receiver and held it to his ear. "I told ya last time, dude, it's 489_**8**_. Learn the number already!" he snapped. The voice that came back on the other end was that of a young woman, sounding like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"I'm sorry, is this... uh... Devil May Cry?" she asked.

"Oh," Dante mumbled eloquently. "Um, yeah. Sorry. Whaddya need?"

"There were... noises upstairs. I thought I heard some sort of monster or something... There was screaming... I... didn't know who else to call."

"Alright. Just gimme your address and I'll be right over."

---------------

Fifteen minutes later, Dante was standing at the front door of an old apartment building. He would've been there in ten, but he and Lady got into an argument over who got to go demon-slaying this time. These "arguments" were never very pretty to watch; suffice to say, Dante won, and Lady had to find a way to remove a billiard ball from the depths of a concrete wall. The woman from before buzzed him in and the devil in red made his way up to the fourth floor of the building- the loft where she had said the noises were coming from. Without any sort of care or finesse, he kicked the door open, twirled his guns out from their holsters, and aimed into the wide room before him.

It was an artist's loft, clearly. Open, with bay windows and a hardwood floor. Furniture was sparse, with only a few chairs, a couch, and a table in the main living area. In a lot of ways, it reminded Dante of his own place back at Devil May Cry. Except this one was drenched in blood, like Jackson Pollock's private Hell. There was one man in a black robe, arms outstretched like Jesus on the cross, in the center of the room with his back toward Dante. He was muttering something, _chanting_ something in an unholy dialect. There were several other men in the room, too, to be sure, but most of them were, well... for lack of a better phrase, "in two pieces".

Dante stepped into the apartment, his boots reverberating loudly in the open room. "Looks like a helluva party you threw here, buddy," he said with his usual sarcastic flair. The robed man stopped chanting and turned his head halfway towards the unexpected guest.

"Oh, you certainly got that right."

The air seemed to thicken. Then, it cracked and shattered like glass. Dante knew that phenomenon well enough already- it was a demon summoning, and he was far too late to stop it. Four demons- no, four _devils_- appeared in the room, one after the other, breaking their way through from the Demon World. Thanks to Vergil and that Arkham guy, the barrier between the worlds was weakened. It was still intact, sure, but with the Temen-Ni-Gru and all, it only took a little assistance from the Human World to bring a demon over from the other side. Unlike before the Temen-Ni-Gru's revival, though, now the devils could come over in their true forms, without the limitations of being forced into a half-demon body.

"Behold, Surgat Who Opens All Locks!" cried the summoner in glee as the first devil came through. It was a tall beast, at least twelve feet in height at a rough estimate, with flesh of a purplish-black color and a marking of an eight-pointed star glowing upon its chest. Its head was adorned with a pair of wicked bull's horns, and its face was featureless, save for a gaping mouth filled to the brim with teeth like knives. The thing called Surgat stood upon legs like those of a goat, coated in a dark, shaggy fur and terminating in a pair of cloven hooves. Truly, the stereotypical demon of men's fears.

"Witness, Yeter'El the Fearful One!" cackled the cultist, who seemed to be going more insane by the second and the next devil made its entrance. This one was more humanoid in appearance, but could never be mistaken for a human, even by the most unobservant viewer. Yeter'El's body looked frail and thin, and he appeared to be wearing a dark cloak- until, on further examination, one would realize the cloak is a part of his body, with no clear definition of where the garment ends, and where the charcoal-like skin of the Fearful One begins. From its hands sprouted silver talons that glinted in the fluorescent light of the room, from its back there grew a pair of vulture's wings; abysmally black, tinged with dust and the gore of the fallen. Yeter'El almost seemed to compensate for Surgat's lack of facial features by having an excess- two pairs of crimson eyes, one pair situated above the other; never blinking, but constantly darting back and forth, surveying the surroundings.

"Witness the coming of Yla, Born of the Great One!" the madman added now, ever more ecstatic. This third beast bore resemblance to Yeter'El, but where Yeter'El was frail, Yla was muscled. He had pale skin that radiated a faint light, majestic white wings, blond hair, and a stoic demeanor. In many ways, he was the stereotypical angel of legend, save for his clawed hands and his third eye, positioned in the center of his forehead.

"And the great master... Bael Who Rules Below!" The final demon made his appearance at long last. Yet, for all the imposing appearances of the ones who came before, Bael was the most understated. In fact, his appearance was virtually unchanged from his appearance over fifteen years before- aside from the great scar across his right eye and the shining, ornate greatsword he now carried slung across his back. "I think that's quite enough from you," Bael said to the cultist, and reached for the handle of the sword. In one swift motion, he cleaved the man in half and returned the blade to its resting position. With a detached air, he began to walk towards the door, saying to his cohorts, "I think it's time we did what we set out to do all those years ago. I think it's time we bring back the Temen-Ni-Gru."

"Not so fast, buddy!" Dante interrupted, cocking his pistols for effect. "I went through a lotta crap with that place a little while back. There's no way I'm doing it again for you guys."

"Charming," scoffed Bael. "And just what makes you think you have any say in the matter?"

"Just try and stop me."

Bael smiled, a grin dripping with malice. He cracked his knuckles and put his hand on his sword's handle. "Gladly. It'll be nice to see how my skills have fared over the years..."

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	3. Chapter 3

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Chapter 3: Artificium Chaos

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Sparda, the Dark Knight of legend, walked out of the cold night air through the front door of his home. Quietly, he closed the door behind him, hung his duster on the coat rack, and let go a deep sigh. He set his pistols upon the table, but his hand lingered on them- they had always been there in the past, an instrument of divine justice with his sword and his might, never afraid to strike down evil. Yet, here they were now, like Sparda, useless, without purpose. It was a thought that gave him no respite. He had let them go free.

He hung his head in shame, and quietly made his way to the bedroom. The once-great Sparda, reduced to this. If it had been like old times, he told himself, he would've struck them down without a second thought... but now, now he had responsibilities. He had Eva to care for, and his sons to look after. Little Vergil and Dante, his pride and joy. If anything happened to them, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. Sparda wanted them to have a carefree life, not to concern themselves with his troubles.

As he lay down in his bed, Sparda looked at Eva sleeping there, so unperturbed, so peaceful. It occurred to him that if he let the Four do what they intended to, that look may never adorn her beautiful face again. There may never again be another moment of peace. But what choice did he have? If he let them run free, his family would be spared; he had might enough to protect them, certainly. The world would suffer, though- the world he had worked so hard to save before. Would he, _could _he be willing to sacrifice the lives of so many for so few?

He turned over in his bed, restlessly. It was a no-win situation. If he tried to undo his mistake, his family would suffer. The world would be saved, but all he held dear would be taken from him. The choice had been so much simpler before, when he didn't have these cares. Sparda looked over at his beloved wife again; she brought him so much joy, but it was because of her, and because of his weakness, that he was unable to stop this tragedy from taking place.

Sparda lay there for what felt like hours, turning the thoughts over in his head, considering and reconsidering. It seemed like an impossible decision.

At long last, he heaved another deep sigh, and arose from the bed. He had reached a decision. He knew what had to be done. He leaned over, gently kissing Eva on the cheek. Before he left, Sparda whispered to her just two words, spoken from the depths of his heart:

"I'm sorry."

And with that, the Dark Knight left. With guns in hand, monocle glinting in the pale moonlight, and coat rustling in the breeze, he charged into the night, bent upon the trail of Bael and the others. He would find them.

He would stop them.

They would know the wrath of the devil himself, no matter what the cost.

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	4. Chapter 4

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Chapter 4: Lock 'n Load

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Bael stepped forward, to the center of the bloodstained apartment. He gestured to his demonic companions, demanding their compliance; not being foolish, they all stepped back to the edge of the room. Dante smirked and put away his guns. "Ohhh, you want a one-on-one, eh? That's cool, I can take you on." Casually, he strutted towards his opponent, and both fighters put their hands upon their swords.

"You're certainly a confident one," mused Bael as he began to circle Dante.

"Hey, if you did the crap I've done and come out alive, you'd be cocky too."

Bael grinned and leapt at Dante with devilish speed. Their massive blades seemed to fly off the warriors' backs of their own accord, a pair of demon swords wielded with expert skill. There was a deafening metallic clang as Bael's blade became acquainted with the Force Edge; Dante swung his father's blade around for a second blow and was matched in an instant by Bael's speed. The sounds of combat rang through the air, blows being traded nearly beyond the limit of human sight, and then, they separated- a powerful attack repelled both demons, sending them skidding across the floor.

Dante, however, was not finished. He adjusted his stance and charged, the Force Edge gouging the floor open as he dragged it in his wake. Bael did not move an inch- nor even display the slightest hint of concern. Sparda's son attacked with all of his might... in vain. In what seemed to be a single fluid movement, Bael managed to not only deflect the attack, but deliver a grievous kick to the side of Dante's head, sending him flying across the room. Dante collided unceremoniously with the wall, Force Edge sliding over the hardwood after him and coming to a halt at his feet.

"A wonderful effort, boy, but you should really consider a new career if you're calling yourself a demon hunter," said Bael as he resheathed his greatsword. Once more he gesticulated towards his companions, and they began to walk towards the door. One by one, they left, but Bael stayed behind. He said to Dante, as the red devil groaned and clutched his aching head, "We are going to the Temen-Ni-Gru. We've been watching you for some time; all those demons you've killed were but a trifle compared to us. If you choose to interfere... we'll kill you, and all those you hold dear. That girl you keep around your office looks like someone you wouldn't want to endanger... now, be a good boy and stay out of our way."

With that, he left.

Dante stayed on the floor for a while; he hadn't taken a hit like that in years. When he was finally able to stand, he thought over what Bael had said before making his decision. It took all of ten seconds, but the point was, he decided. He had never listened to anyone else's warnings before, why start now? He'd just follow 'em and kill 'em, and that would be that. '_Lady can defend herself_,' he thought. '_She's tougher than she looks.'_

Dante finished considering his options (if giving the proverbial finger to your enemies and doing whatever you feel like is "considering"), stood up, and strapped Force Edge to his back. Before he left, he spared a quick glance around the loft; his eyes went to the bloodstained walls, the blood-smeared floor, the corpses of the cultists scattered here and there, the massive cleft in the hardwood that he had dragged his sword through, and the cracked drywall, some of which was still stuck to his back.

"Man," he said to himself, "this dude ain't gettin' his deposit back on _this _place."

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	5. Chapter 5

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Chapter 5: Passus Tractus de Letum

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The wind whipped around him as he ran. His thoughts boiled, filling him with a profound sense of purpose, of duty- of righteous anger. It was a feeling he had not felt in years, a welcome release from the aloofness he had been smothered in. His gloves grew tighter as his fists clenched; the icebound night air was soothing against his warm flesh, his racing blood, and through it all, he could not help but smile- Sparda had returned.

His final decision, to leave his family behind and eliminate the enemy for the greater good, had taken form. Sparda moved like a shadow against the moonlight, hell-bent on seeing his foes destroyed. It was a simple plan: he would find their trail, hunt each of them down and slay the devils when they made themselves vulnerable; the threat neutralized, he would then return to his home, his sons, and his wife, and things would go on as they had before. He was confident in his success, that all would go without a hitch, but in the back of his mind, Sparda knew his potential triumph rested on the edge of a proverbial blade. One false move, a careless slip, and he stood to lose everything.

It was a necessary risk.

In due time, he had found his way to the fateful chapel wherein, just a few scant hours before, all Hell had broken loose. As he stood there, he considered the layout of the countryside, and tried to remember the precise location of the Temen-Ni-Gru. He would have to make haste to that location and cut off the Four before they could resurrect it, or worse, reopen the door to the Demon World. Time was on his side, though: the demons had not expected Sparda to go back on his word and, as such, they would be in considerably less of a hurry to get there than he was.

After a moment's consideration, Sparda knew the direction he needed to go and stole away like a thief in the night. From here on out, he would need to keep his wits about him. He would need to stay hidden, out of his enemies' awareness, until the last possible moment. If they discovered his interference, it would be Sparda's loved ones who paid the price for his negligence. That could not be allowed to happen.

Through it all, though, despite the unchecked dangers presented to him, the problems that could easily arise and the consequences should he fail, Sparda could not help but smile. He clenched his fists once more, and the cloth of his gloves pulled taut against his hands. Sparda had returned, and he was out for blood.

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	6. Chapter 6

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Chapter 6: Hunt A Soul

* * *

So, just like that, Dante was on the street again. He had thought about telling Lady where he was going, but he quickly reconsidered. She was just gonna want to tag along again, and he couldn't afford to pay for another "argument" in their office. The way he figured it, it was easier to do what he was planning to do the whole time and catch her up on it when he was done.

It wasn't too hard to track the devils through the urban sprawl. Despite having a leader who was apparently in control of the situation, some habits you just can't beat out of a demon; one of those habits is a healthy appetite for pointless destruction. Let's just say that it's not hard to follow someone's path when they make it a point to blow holes in the walls of buildings for laughs on their way. Not to mention the cars mangled and ripped in half like phone books. Or the bloodstains of the people who weren't quite fast enough to run away. Or the bent and twisted streetlights... well, you get the picture; they're not pleasant people to be around.

Fortunately for Dante, the four devils didn't appear to be part of what one would call a tight-knit group. For the most part, it seemed like they only obeyed Bael out of convenience. This may explain the presence of a straggler in the group, left behind to enjoy himself with the pointless destruction while the others continued ahead.

It was a bit of a surprise, the scene the son of Sparda came upon in following the trail of the Four. At a nearby street corner, standing atop a broken-down car, was one of the devils himself: Yeter'El the Fearful One. His wings were spread wide, like an angel of darkness, and with a certain sort of psychotic pleasure, he addressed a crowd of humans- the residents of the city- that had gathered in the intersection before him. With a voice like sandpaper, he delivered his dark sermon:

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Human World, kneel before your true masters! I am a powerful devil, known in the language of men as Yeter'El the Fearful One. Within the Demon World, even the mightiest demons cower at my name, and you would do well to do the same. Know this: soon, your pitiful world will be overrun with demons, and your only salvation will come through total obedience to me..."

There was a click from behind Yeter'El, followed quickly by a mocking laugh. "Yeah, right," quipped the demon hunter, "and my name's Attila the Hun. If any of what you just said was true, I'd eat my foot!" Yeter'El turned away from his throng of would-be followers to see Dante casually approaching, pistol in hand.

"Hm, you..." said the pitch-black demon. "I thought you would've been smart enough to stay out of our affairs."

"I thought about it. This seemed like more fun."

"My job amongst devils is to spread fear and terror among humans," continued Yeter'El. "In doing so, they learn to respect devils, and to obey us! You interrupted my work, true, but perhaps by destroying you they will see my true power and learn."

Dante smirked and gestured at Yeter'El with his pistol. "Feel free to give it a shot, if you think you can. I'd certainly like to see you try." Yeter'El beat his wings, sending loose feathers off into the air, and flexed his hands. All four of his eyes fixed themselves upon Dante at once and Yeter'El's hands went to his twin swords. He beat his wings once more, and flew into the air; the devil paused for a second at the apex of his flight, and shouted down to his opponent:

"Prepare yourself!"

With that, he began to dive in for the attack.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Hurrah! I finally got Sir Blackmoon to write once again. Now, a warning, not that I think anyone will need it. Things get downright grisly in this chapter, so just be ready for some gore.

* * *

Chapter 7: Ulcisci Daemoniae

* * *

Sparda had run tirelessly across the hills, through the moonlit wood, hunting his foes on their path to the Temen-Ni-Gru. They had grown careless, thinking they had forced Sparda into submission, and had thought themselves safe enough to stop and rest along their path. Each respite they took allowed the Dark Knight to gain ground and close the distance between them, and he relished the thought of soaking his hands in the blood of the wicked once more.

As he cleared the next hill, Sparda saw before him a valley. A town normally sat peacefully there, Sparda remembered- he had been there once before, exterminating a sudden outbreak of possessed mannequins- but now, the hamlet was in flames, casting a hellish glow upon the night sky. In the distance, on the other side of the valley, Sparda could barely make out the illuminated shapes of three figures heading to the Temen-Ni-Gru. "That means," he growled to himself, "one stayed behind..."

-- -- -- -- --

Embers danced through the air as flames licked at Sparda's ebon armor. Striding through the conflagration, wrath in his eyes, he looked like the true picture of a devil, the stuff of nightmares. His own burning aura, his released demonic power in his Devil Trigger form, seemed to mingle with the rising fire in the village, making him look like a demon of flame and darkness. He looked like he had come from Hell itself.

In the town square, though, there stood a devil of true evil. The black robe he wore seemed to have a life of its own as it whipped and twisted in the wind. He cackled maniacally, and was lashing out with his twin blades at any human unlucky enough to run by in their mad rush to escape their fate. Yeter'El's job was to frighten the mortals into submission, and to say the least, he was enthusiastic about his job.

Demon of Fear though he was, his actions were not enough to frighten off a warrior such as Sparda. Over the din of the chaos, the screams of the townspeople, and even the maddened laughter of Yeter'El- or, perhaps, in _spite_ of them- Sparda tread through the streets, the steel of his boots cracking the pavement with his every step. "Monster!" he roared; even the panicked survivors stopped to see the source of the outburst, and upon seeing dire Sparda, they redoubled their efforts to escape. Yeter'El turned to face Sparda, his black hair falling over his sunken eyes. The demon's face broke into a wide grin, and he laughed with a deranged joy. "Sparda! It seems you've broken the pact... I'm afraid I--"

"Silence, wretch. This city will be your grave. I'm going to make sure of that right now."

Yeter'El's grin disappeared for an instant, but returned as swiftly as it had gone. He began to say something when a gunshot rang out through the air.

"That was a warning shot, demon," said Sparda, the pistol Luce gripped tightly in his clenched right hand. "I am doing the talking now. I should tell you, I do not have my sword, but do not think this means you will be spared- no, it merely means I intend to crush your skull against the pavement with my _bare hands_. Surrender now or prolong your suffering."

The devil's ever-present smirk had faded completely now, in the face of so grim a threat. He was sadistic, yes, even deranged, but even Yeter'El knew when a situation was to be taken seriously. He did not utter a sound as he marched toward Sparda, the swords in his hands gleaming in the light of the fires. "So be it," grunted the Dark Knight; he holstered his pistol and mimicked the silent march toward his foe. He did not have his mighty sword, this was true, but even against an armed opponent, there was no doubt in his mind about the outcome of this fight. Sparda had proven himself time and again to be a formidable warrior, capable of battling on even terms with the Demon World's strongest combatants.

Yeter'El made the first move, crouching down and leaping at Sparda with catlike speed. He swung his swords with expert precision, but Sparda simply braced himself and deflected each blow with nothing but his gauntlets. The show of defensive skill took Yeter'El by surprise, and in the moment he dropped his guard, Sparda seized and restrained the Fearful One's hands with only his left arm.

"No," Sparda barked. "you're not good enough to beat me like that."

His opponent opened his mouth to voice a protest at the insult, but was cut short with a punch to the face. Then another, and another. With his hands, and thus, his only efficient means of attack, shackled by the iron grip of the Dark Knight Sparda, Yeter'El was helpless to prevent the savage hail of blows being rained upon him. The fires of rage burned within Sparda's eyes, his aura seeming to engulf the two enemies in flames, as he continued his beastly assault, bone crunching under his knuckles with every strike.

After a time, Sparda ceased the attack, and grabbed Yeter'El by the throat, blood running down his fingers. He removed the bright blades from Yeter'El's helpless hands and threw them to the ground with a clatter, and then followed suit with their owner. The defeated devil looked up at Sparda piteously, his eyes begging for mercy. "Worry not," said Sparda, "I shall grant you your release. Die, fell creature."

Soon thereafter, if one had looked towards the outskirts of the ruined town, one would have seen a figure in black armor with an aura of flame, walking resolutely from the carnage, a streak of blood trailing from his boot across the ground...

* * *


End file.
